


I'm a fool to want you

by starryfull13



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 101 Dalmatians Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, As per the book and Disney, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has anxiety, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has anxiety, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Human POV, Inspired by 101 Dalmatians, M/M, Mild animal danger, Musician Crowley (Good Omens), Period-Typical Homophobia, Puppy Love, Slow Burn, The dogs are smarter, Their dogs help, Writer Aziraphale (Good Omens), for the humans, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryfull13/pseuds/starryfull13
Summary: Aziraphale is a well known author living in London with his sweet natured dog Perdita.Crowley is a struggling musician running away from his past, trying to keep himself and his dog Pongo in one piece. Which is easier said than done when he isn't causing trouble and turning their lives upside down. There are better ways to go about meeting someone new than causing a scene in the park.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: GO-Events Book Fest





	I'm a fool to want you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my contribution to the GO Event Book Fest where we get the delightful chance to combine the GO universe with a beloved book! My fic is inspired by The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith (with some of the Disney film thrown in there as well because some moments are just too cute not to include)  
> The story will be from the human's POV because I'm not that clever and we get to have a closer look at the development of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, and the trials that comes with being gay in 1950's London :( 
> 
> Big thanks to Amanda for organising this event and my amazing beta JoyAndOtherStories for going through this chapter with a fine tooth comb and making it so much better! And to Bianca for dealing with my freak out!  
> Also shout out to the cheerleaders in the Get it Write server who keep throwing love at my snippets! I love and appreciate you all so much

“Yes, I-”

One of Aziraphale’s least favourite parts of being a writer was having to talk to his publisher. Or more accurately, attempt to talk to his publisher. The conversations tended to be rather one sided, and that side was never his.

“No, of course it-”

His publisher liked to ask Aziraphale questions, then answer his own questions without giving Aziraphale a chance to answer. Often, the answers were far from what Aziraphale would have actually replied. On the odd occasion his publisher let Aziraphale get a word in, he had an uncanny ability to never hear what Aziraphale actually said. Only taking note of the parts he wanted to hear, and if there were none, twisting it until he had something he liked.

“I would never-”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, taking a deep calming breath. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper over the phone, especially when the publishers had every right to be annoyed with him. It was his own fault his draft was late, after all. He should have been more careful, should have looked after himself better, then he wouldn’t have got so unwell. They were just doing their job, making sure he was on track for his second deadline.

His publisher continued to talk on the other end. Aziraphale tried to listen to what he was saying, he really did. But the booming, falsely kind and sympathetic voice had long become grating. Another one of his publisher’s talents was talking about things that were insignificant but making them seem imperative. Luckily, Aziraphale had become an expert in switching off yet still managing to pick out the important bits while his publisher rambled on.

Something bumped against Aziraphale’s leg as he hummed the occasional response to his publisher. He reached down to affectionately pat the top of a spotted head, immediately lifting his spirits. How was it his dog always knew when he was feeling tense?

On the other end of the line his publisher finally sounded as if he was wrapping up their phone call. It could have been worse, he supposed, he could have been called into the office to meet face to face.

“I can assure you it will be finished by the end of the month…………….. Yes……………… Yes………………. Goodbye.”

A long sigh of relief escaped Aziraphale as he hung up the phone. A head found its way onto his lap, letting out a small whine until his hands scratched behind its ears. He checked the time on the clock. The phone call hadn’t taken that long, but it felt like he had been on the phone for hours. Although, it had brought him closer to closing time, and the lovely spring afternoon was very tempting.

“I think that’s enough work for today. What do you say to closing up shop early and getting some fresh air?”

Perdita gave a little excited humph before trotting off to collect her lead.

* * *

Crowley had spent the last who knows how long plunking about on his piano in the hopes something good would come out. This was the last jingle he needed to write. Then he could throw the blasted thing at the wireless company and get his money for the week.

Something unexpectedly caught his ear. Crowley repeated the bar, rolling the sound around his head a couple of times before adding it to the last few bars of his composition. It didn’t sound half bad. He looked up at his sheet music to mark down the notes but all the notes merged and danced about. He’d been at this for too long; the time on his fancy watch confirmed that. He needed a break. He needed to take Pongo out before he went to Warlock’s for his lesson.

Crowley yawned as he stretched, cracking a few bones in the process, before running his hands down his face. The jingles were tedious, painfully so. They weren’t challenging, and all sounded the same to him. Happy, chirpy tunes to get stuck in people’s heads and annoy them for a few weeks (though Crowley did enjoy the thought of annoying the general public). They had no weight to them, no depth, no substance. Not like his other compositions and music, his real work. But that didn’t pay the bills. The odd pub gig here and there wasn’t enough.

Heaven, even the jingles weren’t enough. He had to tutor a handful of snotty rich folks’ kids who only wanted them to learn an instrument because it would help their image. And the kids only did it because they had to.

But listening to bored kids abuse a piece of classical music for ten hours a week and writing those horrendous jingles were necessary evils. A small snore from over by the window was a reminder of that. It was far from what he hoped for when he gave up his old life. But the steady income helped keep a roof over his head, and feed his dog.

Pongo was sprawled on his blanket snoozing in the low afternoon sun that was streaming through the little window. The simple life of a dog. Crowley sauntered over to scratch at Pongo’s belly to wake him up.

“Come on. Wakey wakey.”

Much like his owner, Pongo was never too happy about waking up. Pongo rolled languidly onto his back to stretch his legs (another similarity between Pongo and himself Crowley didn’t like to put too much thought into), then snapped onto his front, wide eyed and alert at the words “walk” and “park”.

Crowley hated his flat. It was small, dark, dingy, cold, and (being a converted basement flat) all odd angles and noisy pipes. Wallpaper peeled off the walls in every room. Well, the two rooms that made his flat, anyway, since his bedroom, kitchen and living room were the same room. And no matter how much he cleaned it always seemed to be grimy. It was as if the dirt and sludge oozed from the walls. But his Landlady didn’t care. Kept saying he should be grateful to have somewhere in such a prime location so cheap. And in a way, she was right.

For now, it was a place to sleep and write stupid jingles. The one saving grace was it was close to St James’s Park (Green Park was closer, but it didn’t have a pond). In a few minutes he could be out of that hole and walking through the trees and greenery. That was the one thing he really missed from his old life, hated about the city. The lack of green. Sure, he had a few plants, but with so little light he couldn’t keep many, and the ones he did have only remained alive through his bullying and stubbornness.

What he wouldn’t give to have a garden! But a garden in central London, even a tiny one, was like gold dust. And WAY out of his price range. But knowing the park was round the corner and the Bentley ready for trips to the country on weekends so Pongo could really stretch his legs was enough for now. Overall, he was content with his life, he had everything he needed. And anything was better than being stuck in that house full of leeches from his past.

A few steps into the park, Crowley paused. He inhaled the scent of the grass and earth, still a little damp from the shower at lunchtime, and felt the sun on his face. He tried to block out the noise of traffic and tourists and concentrate on the sound of the sparrows, the ducks and the bees.

He walked along the path taking his usual route with Pongo ambling at his side. Pongo sniffed his way along the path at something of interest and watched the ducks fight over bits of bread a toddler was throwing at them. A fresh spring breeze carried the sweet scent of flowers catching Crowley’s attention. He scrutinised the flowerbed bursting with late yellow daffodils and pink and red tulips.

To the general public the flowerbed was a bright spot of beautiful colour, and it was to Crowley too. But the half dead daffodils left to shrivel and brown made it look untidy to him. If he were in charge, he would never let the grounds look anything less than one hundred and one percent.

Pongo almost pulled Crowley off his feet, disrupting his glaring at the offending daffodils, tugging him along the path and towards the bridge over the pond. Crowley tried and failed to regain his balance and some semblance of control while Pongo continued to charge, dragging a sputtering Crowley behind him.

“Pongo what? Stop!”

Crowley didn’t expect it to work; Pongo was focused on something, but he didn’t know what else to do! Digging his heels into the ground wasn’t working, and he was too light to put any real strength against the pull of the lead. It took almost everything to ensure the lead wasn’t whipped out of his hands.

As quickly as his manic moment started, Pongo halted near a bench and tree overlooking the pond, making Crowley crash into him.

“What was that about?” Crowley asked his dog, swearing furiously. Though he wasn’t sure why, it’s not like he would get an answer.

Pongo held his head high and began to strut. He led Crowley toward the tree by the water, right in front of someone sitting with their dog, and their nose stuck in a book. It was far from their usual route and stopping spot, but after that episode Crowley could do with the break now.

He plonked himself onto the dry grass under the tree to have a well needed cigarette. He couldn’t remember Pongo doing something like that before; usually he was quite a laid-back dog. He wasn’t into chasing birds or squirrels. In fact, the only time he showed any interest in being active was if a ball was involved when they took their trips on Sundays.

Crowley took that first, wonderfully long drag of his cigarette, tipping his head back to rest against the tree. His contemplative moment was once again interrupted by Pongo snatching his packet of cigarettes from beside him.

“Oi! Pongo! Give me that!” Crowley went to grab the packet out of Pongo’s mouth but fell over on his face when Pongo playfully jumped out of reach, resulting in him dropping the lead.

Groaning, he propped himself up on his elbows to witness Pongo trotting over to the bench and dropping the packet next to the man sitting on it, barking proudly at his achievement (whatever it was). Now the man wasn’t reading, Crowley could get a good look at him, and he was gorgeous!

He was dressed head to toe in creams and browns in a style that reminded Crowley of the portrait of his great-grandfather. He even wore a velvet waistcoat and gold pocket watch which glinted in the sunlight. His light blond hair was ridiculously fluffy and not styled in the slightest, but the whole look suited him perfectly. Including the out of style hat and terrible tartan umbrella.

Crowley knew he was gawking, but he couldn’t care less; his sunglasses were very good at hiding what he was looking at. Besides, the man was staring right back at him, before coming back to himself and making to leave with his dog, which was also a Dalmatian. Interesting. There weren’t many Dalmatians about.

Pongo moved to follow them when he realised they were leaving. Crowley leapt into action, literally, landing on top of Pongo stopping him from going anywhere.

“Right. That’s it. We’re going home,” said Crowley, catching the lead and standing up. Before he knew it, he was once again being hauled over to the blond. “Pongo!” To Crowley’s horror, Pongo circled the two men, tightly wrapping them together at the legs with his lead.

“Oh!” the other man gasped, turning round to face Crowley when he felt the tug of the lead at his knees.

This close Crowley could see the stunning blue/grey of his eyes (well, as far as he could tell with his glasses on). Not the best time to be going down that road. “Um. Shit, let me try.”

“Well, this is most irregular.”

The two men staggered, attempting to create as much distance between themselves as possible, only making things worse. One minute they were upright, the next flailing around in the icy pond water. Crowley could hear ducks quacking excitedly in the distance as he attempted to sit himself up.

“PONGO!”

The stupid dog was making his way back to the bank, shaking the worst of the water off his coat and spraying the blond’s Dalmatian in the process. The man was fretting somewhere next to Crowley. His bright, pristine clothes now dark and smeared with pond sludge.

“Don’t know what’s come over him. You alright?”

“No! Of course I’m not alright.” the blond rumbled, attempting to stand himself up and slipping on the mud. “I’m completely soaked, thanks to you and your dog! And oh! Look at my book, it's ruined!” the blond accused, drawing more attention to the pair of them as he finally managed to stand upright.

Crowley lost his patience. “Look, I didn't do it on purpose! Urgh! And I’ve got a lesson in an hour!” There was no way he would make it back to the flat, sort himself out and get there on time. Even with his driving.

Crowley brushed away the wet hair that was plastered to his face and sighed heavily. Shouting at each other wasn’t going to solve anything, and it wasn’t the blond he was angry with anyway. “Why don't I-”

The blond cut him off. “I think you’ve done more than enough!” he cried over his shoulder as he stormed off, his dog trotting beside him. The effect was ruined by the squelching sound he made with each step.

Crowley turned his attention to Pongo, who at least had the decency to look ashamed.

**Author's Note:**

> Oops!!!!! Bad Pongo???
> 
> How could I not include one of the best meet cutes in the universe???? The best way to describe this fic (thank you for this Freyja!) is its a patchwork quilt, so there will be bits of the book coming up I promise! Though when is a different story (what's a posting schedule?)
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this journey with me :)


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